Better Off_ Flipping the Switch on Technology - Eric Brende [97]
And so, in the race to become the next Minimite minister, the son of a converted agribusinessman from North Carolina vanquished the progeny of a Cleveland corporate executive. A community of backward-seeming yeomen that entrusts its future to serendipity cannot be all bad.
Then again, I suppose one cannot rule out the complicity of some outside agent, that hidden presence to which the Minimites in fact gave the credit.
Mary and I were out-of-doors one day when we saw a bicyclist approach from the crest of the hill. I recognized the old-style suspenders and straw hat and wondered what a Minimite youth—and he seemed young—would be doing on a bicycle when to the best of my knowledge, the device was not in favor here. As the cyclist neared, I recognized him and my jaw dropped.
“Bill!” He stopped and we stared at each other. He looked unusually glum. Finally I asked, “What are you doing?”
“Just came from town.”
“Town? What were you doing there?”
“Working at my new job.”
This was very strange. Minimite members, even newly weaned urbanites like Bill, normally did not take city jobs away from the farm. This could mean only one thing. Bill was no longer—
“Tell you more about it some other time.” He pushed off and disappeared down a side road with a little plume of dust trailing behind.
“Who was that?” Mary asked. I told her the whole story, or at least the parts she had not already heard.
Bill’s father, I knew, had returned to the area. I found him on his front porch. He was easy to recognize; he had Bill’s willowy body and darting eyes. I identified myself.
“Ah, yes.” He smiled. “Bill’s told me a lot about you.”
I mentioned why I had come.
Mr. Richards looked downcast. “It’s been a hard year for Bill. Nothing seems to have gone his way.”
I found Edward in his furniture shop and told what I knew.
He turned to me with a look of wrath. “You and Bill both. It’s a real effort. I didn’t really want you here.” The outburst left me reeling. Then Edward sank back, sighed, and closed his eyes. “It’s not”—he smiled and nodded his head—“that I don’t want you. I knew I had a hard nature to get along with—”
In confusion I quickly interjected, “You have a nice nature.”
“There you go telling a fib.”
“You have a nice nature. It’s hard some of the time.” I was becoming flustered and was clutching for words.
“Wh—”
“Being in the army all that time. They really indoctrinate you”—my voice had begun to shake and I was running out of things to say—“brainwash you into giving commands. It’s ingrained in you.”
“Ingrained in me by my father.”
“Oh…That could be.”
Edward divined my agreement, and reared back again. “We’ve been through this over and over. Bill has to learn to submit to authority. That’s just the way this community works.”
Did Edward really think the community’s will was concentrated and embodied in him? Did Bill have the same problem of “submission” with other people here? “Look,” I said in indignation, “all I know is he’s a very pleasant guy to get along with. I know people who, yes, I’d say are not cut out for this. If you brought them here, I would say what’s the use of trying. But Bill’s not like that. I can really sense how he feels. We have a common…”
“United against a common enemy,” Edward replied drolly. He was in retreat again.
“No,” I lied. I groped for a more diplomatic expression. “It’s just the same feeling, maybe, between employees in a large company united at the same level of management. It’s just natural for them to talk about their experiences.” This analogy didn’t seem to help matters.
Edward’s voice swelled with pain. “I’ve seen it happen before like this over and over again—outsiders who think they can come in. It’s always a miserable flop. He has to learn